My (parents') kitchen flooded this week from rainfall. We had a hole in the siding. The fix-it guys set up an engine that must run for 144 consecutive hours. I live in my bedroom now. This whole situation sounds like a good Johnny Cash song. You water-suckin', noise-makin' thang.
I came home from a strangely satisfying work week to the noise, so I retired to my room to read "To Kill a Mockingbird" 12 years after I should have. That I can tell you this is a direct result of four things: a high school diploma from Libertyville Tech, a couple Alabama friends and two of my favorite blogs to the left. Figure it out. I passed out when Jem apologized to Mrs. Dubose for cutting her flowers.
I woke up moments ago in a time-distorted haze. I am working now to pull myself out of it. I can't find any of my friends to hang, and thunder is rolling. My stomach just growled. I need a shower. My hair is too long. I guess I have things to do.
Baseball ended this week. I enjoyed coaching, but the season's end came at the right time. In hindsight I might need a men's league to reunite with my lost passion instead of 15 temporarily insane adolescents. The view from here is still so different from memory lane. As always.
My girlfriend and friend both encountered Sir Butch Davis this week. She saw him field football questions at a restaurant. He saw him pump iron at the UNC Wellness Center.
"Speak tongues to him when he's on the bench," I said. I don't know what that means exactly. I would at least find an appropriate moment for a chest bump or make him say "Worcestershire sauce" to ponder the Donald Trump resemblance.
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